Ennui
by BoundInSkin
Summary: Ivan Braginski is not having a good week. His job is tedious, his cat is reproachful and he's 95% sure that his boyfriend is cheating on him. The appearance of a new student in his Russian literature class might be just what he's been waiting for - or it might destroy him completely. Male/Male relationships, RusAme and RusLat.
1. Prologue

**This story will contain male/male relationships, RusAme and RusLat. If any of that offends you, what are you doing here? As always, I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes. If you're a reader of Your Biggest Fan, I have not forgotten or abandoned that story, my muse is just growing mushrooms in the corner. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

* * *

On the way home from work Ivan stops at the supermarket to replace the almost-empty carton of milk lingering in the door of their fridge, and to top up his supply of vodka. He has a feeling he'll need it to get him through tomorrow night. The cashier raises an eyebrow at his choice, as if she thinks he must live exclusively on White Russians. His briefcase is stuffed with assignments waiting to be graded, so he's forced to take one of the flimsy plastic bags to carry his items in. This always feels strangely humiliating. It's difficult to project an air of professional capability and maturity whilst carrying a shopping bag that's liable to tear at any minute, spilling purchases and dignity all over the floor.

He gets off the tube one stop earlier than usual, so that he can pick up his best (and indeed only) tuxedo from the dry-cleaners. It's good quality, tailor made to fit his large frame and wide shoulders, and although he hates wearing suits as a rule, this one is tolerable. Alfred says that it makes him look like a James Bond villain, but judging from how frisky he gets whenever Ivan wears it he suspects he doesn't exactly mind it either.

The fifteen minute walk to their apartment is more difficult whilst carrying the suit, but he struggles bravely on, and only trips over twice on the way. Once inside he places it carefully down on their bed, laying it out so that it won't crease, then puts away the drinks he bought. Koshka follows him into the bedroom and winds herself around his ankles, rubbing her head against his legs and purring as if she's delighted to see him. Ivan knows that it's all an act – she's hungry, that's all. Cracking open a can of wet cat food and scooping it into her bowl is the next task on his mental list.

Finally he can ease off his shoes, shrug himself out of his coat, tug the scarf from around his neck and begin to relax. He has an itching, crawling craving for coffee, a new sensation that he blames entirely on Alfred, so he moves to start up the expensive machine that the American lugged home last month. He's waiting for the water to boil when his phone vibrates in his pocket, sending a peculiar buzzing feeling up his thigh.

_Home late_, the message says, _new client. Don't wait up! _

There are a few kisses at the end, which do little to placate the irritation that floods through Ivan's body. It seems like Alfred is always home late these days. He knows it's not his boyfriend's fault, that he's moving up in the company and that being a lawyer is an incredibly demanding job, but it's still frustrating. They used to take turns to cook dinner, and watch movies together or go out to bars in the evenings, but now more often than not Ivan sits in front of the television with his plate balanced in his lap, watching crappy movies on the sci-fi channel with only Koshka for company. Without Alfred's career they would never be able to afford their spacious, pretty flat in a premium inner-city location, but Ivan doesn't think that's worth the time spent alone. He can't say anything to Al, though, because his boyfriend adores what he does, thrives on upholding justice (as he calls it) and there's no way Ivan could take that away from him.

The red light on the machine flashes, indicating that the coffee's done, but he doesn't really want it any more. Now that it's made, though, there's an obligation to drink it. He takes a sip, but it's bitter and nasty and he pours the rest down the sink without feeling very guilty about it.

A departmental meeting at lunchtime means that he hasn't eaten for about six hours, but he's definitely not in the mood to conjure up some fine cuisine. Instead he shoves one of Alfred's pizzas (ham and pineapple – not a great combination, but perfect for an evening like this one) into the oven and takes a quick shower. He's more comfortable, although no less tense, once he's changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. With dribbles of water running down his back from his hair he retrieves the pizza, plonks himself down on the sofa and tries to ignore his briefcase, which he thinks might be staring at him. He didn't use to mind marking papers, but now it seems like an impossibly dull, thankless task. Last week one of his students handed in an assignment that was written entirely in purple crayon, and Ivan couldn't even be bothered to make him redo it.

He feels old. Old and tired and bored, although he's barely past thirty. The coveted flat is lifeless without Alfred, and Alfred's never around. His enthusiasm for Russian literature has seeped away after eight years of teaching it to sneering, hung over, unappreciative university students. Even living in London, which he used to think was so exciting, makes his skin itch now. He shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth and turns on the television, and it takes him ten minutes to realise that he's watching Passport Patrol instead of the news. Koshka hops up next to him and stares at him as though berating him. It's that sort of a night.

* * *

When Alfred gets home seven hours later, sticky and exhausted, he finds his boyfriend slumped over on the sofa, with the cat licking at the plate on his lap and Traffic Cops on the television. He sighs, and briefly considers waking him up, before dismissing the notion and hurrying off to their big, cold bed.

* * *

**Comments and queries are always read and appreciated. In other words, I'd love a review.**


	2. Chapter One

**Thanks go to Limelavender, for giving this story it's first review, and to Cassius, for not berating me. This is where the real action begins! Apologies for spelling/grammar errors, and I should warn you that this chapter does contain some swearing, and an offensive word from someone who really should know better. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

* * *

The only advantage to passing out on the sofa is that when Alfred stumbles through the lounge at some ungodly hour in the morning it wakes Ivan up, which means he gets more than a glimpse of his boyfriend before he dashes off to the competitive, high-powered, brilliant job that's making his partner miserable.

Alfred's already dressed, in one of the sharp grey suits that he bought as a congratulatory gift to himself when he got the post at Smith, Smith and Boston's. His tie is red, covered in a muted paisley pattern, and looks like silk. Ivan doesn't recognise it.

"Morning," he says, plonking himself down onto one of the bar stools and rubbing at his head, which feels as though a family of field mice have taken up residence inside and are doing extensive renovations. Alfred grins at him, but his eyes are already sliding away, towards the coffee machine and the toaster and the stack of files next to the fridge. Ivan wants to pour himself a glass of orange juice, but the mere thought of getting up makes him nauseous. Drinking an entire bottle of vodka on the day that you bought it does have certain repercussions.

"How did you sleep?" Ivan asks somewhat bitterly, thinking about their comfortable mattress and the awkward position that he passed out in, which left him with a painful crick in his neck. If Alfred had woken him up when he got back last night they could have gone to bed together, and cuddled or maybe done something stronger – actually, Al would probably have been too tired after working late, so perhaps not – and there wouldn't currently be a sharp pain shooting up Ivan's back.

"Fine," Alfred says. Either he didn't understand the passive aggression behind that question, or he's choosing to ignore it. Ivan would put money on it being the former, though. Alfred has always been terrible at reading the atmosphere, which was initially adorable but quickly became frustrating. Funny how things can change.

Al's hair is washed but not yet combed, and there's a piece sticking up at the front. Ivan wants to reach out and pat it down, but his boyfriend is standing too far away. "What time do we need to leave tonight?" he says, mostly just as a feeble attempt to get Alfred to look away from yesterday's issue of the Financial times, which he's scanning through as he gulps down his coffee. It doesn't work; Alfred replies without so much as a glance at him.

"It starts at seven, so we should leave at half five." The Himbleton Hotel, where the ceremony is being held, is only thirty minutes' drive away. Alfred likes everything to be perfect, though. Tardiness is not an endearing quality in an attorney.

Al finishes his coffee, dumps the cup in the sink, tosses the newspaper onto the counter and gathers the files into the crook of his elbow. With his free hand he reaches out to pick up his wire-rimmed glasses, but Ivan takes advantage of his lean, of their sudden proximity, to wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him. He's aiming for his cheek, but Al twists his head away and Ivan's mouth ends up pressed against his ear. Al makes a frustrated noise, pulls out of his boyfriend's grip, snatches up the glasses and says, "Your breath smells gross."

Ivan scowls at him. "Don't I even get a kiss in the morning?" He sounds like a petulant child, and Alfred apparently thinks so too, because he rolls his eyes. He used to be the immature one.

"I don't have time," he says, "I have an early meeting, and I need to revise the Fielding proposal before my boss gives it to someone else." Ivan has no idea what the Fielding proposal is, but it doesn't sound like something he can argue with. Alfred jams his glasses onto his nose and rushes away towards the bathroom, leaving Ivan alone to nurse his headache. It's an hour earlier than he usually wakes up – his first lecture isn't until ten. This is the perfect opportunity to get those papers marked. And yet… and yet, he doesn't. He can't. It's too much. He presses his fingers into his eye sockets, and exhales, and tells himself that (contrary to appearances) this is everything he ever wished for.

Less than five minutes later Ivan hears Alfred open and close their shoe cupboard, and there's a rustling sound, which is probably him sliding into his new trench coat. When a click indicates that the front door has been opened, Ivan realises that his boyfriend isn't going to come in and say goodbye to him.

"I love you," he calls out. His voice is strange, strained, as though he's said it too often for it to be believable.

"Yeah," Alfred replies, and then the door closes and he's gone.

* * *

Ivan doesn't mean to take it out on his students, but when a red-haired kid suggests that Nabokov's _Pnin _is actually a metaphor for animal abuse he shouts at him so fiercely that the boy actually whimpers. This incident does little to alter Ivan's reputation around the University for being completely, objectively, shit-in-your-pants terrifying.

It all stems from a huge misunderstanding on his first day as a lecturer, when he was overheard in the corridor during a call to his older sister. Katyusha had owned a scabby, unhealthy rabbit that eventually caught some kind of virus that made all its fur fall out and red boils appear on its face, and Ivan had been telling her that he thought it would have to be put to sleep. The rather overdramatic student who had been listening in, though, somehow got the impression that he was talking about a person, and that he was therefore a crazed, psychopathic murderer. It wasn't a great first impression.

The whole thing blew over, and they even joke about it in the staff room now, but Ivan still gets the impression that many of his students are kind of unnerved by him. It makes him wonder whether he's made the right career choice.

At lunchtime he goes to Bernard's café, as usual, and sits with Toris, the mild-mannered Geology professor whose anxiety problems keep him on an intense cocktail of prescription medication. Ivan orders a chicken salad sandwich and strong black coffee, the way he used to drink it before Alfred came along. Alfred, with his milk and cream and sixteen sugars. Toris has peppermint tea and an egg mayonnaise baguette, which he peers at suspiciously, as if at any moment it might sprout legs and scurry away.

"Do you have your tuxedo ready?" Toris says, and Ivan stares at him blankly for a moment before he realises that he must have told him about the awards ceremony.

"Yes," he replies shortly. He doesn't dislike Toris, but he's not in any kind of mood for meaningless chitchat.

"I wish I had the chance to go to something like that," Toris says, and sighs to himself, "My plans for tonight involve a tub of frozen yoghurt and the Holby City box set." He gives a hollow, humourless little laugh, "Just like every night, really." Ivan takes a bite of his sandwich, feeling discomfort creep through his chest. Toris' obvious, open loneliness unsettles him. If it weren't for Alfred, would he be like that?

"It's not so great, really," he says, because he feels like he has to, "There are a lot of long, tedious speeches." Toris nods as though he understands.

"Is Alfred likely to win anything?" Ivan wonders if Toris has a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or anyone of his own to share this with. He's never mentioned anything about his romantic life. He suspects it might be pretty much non-existent. Perhaps that's why he always seems so interested in Ivan's.

"No," he says, then feels guilty for it, because Alfred really is a terrific lawyer (he must be, with all the hours he puts in), "I don't think so, anyway. It is very prestigious." When they attended the ceremony last year there were hundreds of people there, and only a handful of them were actually given awards. Alfred wasn't even nominated for one, but he seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing. As they were leaving he stole a bottle of champagne and drank it all in the cab home, then crawled onto Ivan's lap and didn't let go of him until the next morning.

"Well, maybe he'll get lucky," Toris says, and Ivan can't help but think that _he_ hasn't gotten lucky in over a fortnight. Maybe tonight will change that.

* * *

When Ivan gets out of the shower Alfred is already dressed, right down to his shiny new Italian leather shoes. The cut of his tuxedo highlights his strong jaw and the muscles in his arms, and Ivan's torn between never wanting him to take it off and a strong urge to rip it away immediately. His boyfriend's face, though, is sour.

"Hurry up," he snaps, "We're going to be late." It's not even five o'clock yet, so Ivan highly doubts that, but he moves towards the wardrobe a little faster anyway. As he tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and his shirt he can see Alfred fiddling with his cufflinks through the mirror on the wardrobe door. He looks nervous. When Ivan turns around to face him, though, his expression becomes carefully blank. "Remember to wear a belt," he says, and pushes himself to his feet. Ivan watches him leave the room, thinking that he has been wearing trousers for almost thirty years now, so he must be capable enough at it to not require any advice.

Ivan finishes dressing and combs his hair, then looks at his reflection for a while. His nose is too big, and his large hands and feet make him awkward, ungainly, but tonight he thinks that he looks good. He straightens his bow tie, checks that his socks don't have any holes in, and slips on the watch that Alfred bought him for Christmas two years ago. It has a leather strap and a gold rim, and although it makes his wrist itch Alfred is always pleased when he wears it.

He goes out to the lounge, trying to ignore the way Al's eyes slide up and down his form as though assessing him, and sits down in the armchair that he brought over from his parents house when they first moved in. It's the only piece of furniture that Ivan can confidently say is his.

There's something different about Alfred today, but it takes a few minutes for him to realise what it is. "Is that a new cologne?" he asks, although he already knows the answer.

"No," Alfred says, but his ears turn pink, a sure sign that he's lying. In this case Ivan would know even without that indicator; Alfred's usual cologne has a woody scent, like pine trees, but tonight he smells sharply of citrus. Ivan wrinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything. It's not worth an argument.

* * *

In the car Alfred flicks restlessly between radio stations, resting for a couple of minutes on a country song before switching to heavy metal and then to some rock classic that Ivan vaguely recognises. He sits silently in the passenger seat, watching commuters whiz past and telling himself that if Al wanted to share whatever it is that he's so anxious about, he would.

They enter the underground car park at five minutes past six, which Ivan still thinks is absurdly early. Al steers the Lexus into a space between a Rolls Royce and a Hummer, then turns off the engine and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a couple of seconds. When he brings his head up his eyes look almost the same as they used to, when they first got together. Bright, expectant, enthusiastic. Then he says in a dry voice, "Don't fuck this up, okay?" and the illusion is shattered.

The Himbleton is an opulent place, an extravagant place, an expensive place, but not a particularly nice place. The man behind the desk seems to sneer at them when Alfred asks which room the ceremony is being held in, and Ivan wishes he hadn't chosen reindeer-patterned underwear. There are a few other people milling about who are probably lawyers, or lawyers plus ones, in tuxedos and ball gowns and jewellery. He needs the toilet.

Alfred goes off to the ballroom, and Ivan goes off for a piss. The restroom is large and gleaming and obnoxiously bright, and under the glaring neon lights he comes down with a sudden attack of nerves. It's almost five minutes before he can go.

Once finished, he follows a likely looking couple towards the ballroom, which is enormous and luxurious but makes him feel acutely uncomfortable. He'd be much happier back at the flat, or at the university, than surrounded by so much wealth. He spots Alfred at a table some twenty metres away, speaking animatedly to the blonde-haired man sitting next to him, and hurries over.

He pauses behind Alfred for several moments before either of them notice him. "Uh, hello," he says, and Al finally turns round.

"Oh. Ivan. You're back." It's not exactly the effusive greeting that Ivan was hoping for. "This is Arthur Kirkland, my boss. Arthur, this is Ivan." He should feel slighted at not being introduced as a boyfriend, or partner, but he's too distracted by the strange expression on Arthur Kirkland's face. It's somewhere between surprise and annoyance, which he thinks is an odd reaction towards a complete stranger. Perhaps the conversation that he interrupted was just extremely interesting.

"Nice to meet you," he says, and Arthur Kirkland murmurs, "Likewise." He has the most clipped, precise English accent Ivan has ever heard. He slips into the seat on Alfred's other side and looks up at the stage at the far end of the room, where there's a PowerPoint playing and a podium set up. He turns to ask Al which company is sponsoring this event, but his boyfriend is talking to Arthur again, and he doesn't feel like he can intrude.

* * *

Dinner is lobster, with risotto as a starter and something brown for dessert. It has a very long, complicated French name, but it looks and tastes like chocolate mousse. Ivan notices that Arthur Kirkland barely picks at his shellfish, and doesn't even try the pudding. Perhaps he's watching his figure, but Ivan suspects that he's just peculiarly fussy.

Alfred doesn't seem to mind, though, because he remains locked in furtive conversation with his boss right up until the lights begin to dim. Ivan attempts to join in a couple of times, but they're discussing concepts he's never heard of and people he's never met, so he just ends up embarrassing himself. Several more times during the evening he catches Arthur Kirkland giving him that odd look, as though he's astonished and irritated by his presence. Somehow, Ivan doesn't think that they're going to be good friends.

The awards themselves are presided over by a man with the most enormous moustache Ivan has ever seen, and are for the most part extremely dull. He keeps his eyes on the stage and his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget. He feels like a schoolboy sitting through a particularly tedious assembly. Just when he's beginning to think they will never end, that he'll be here forever, clapping until the skin of his palms wears away, there's a final exuberant round of applause and the lights go up again.

He turns to Alfred, and finds that his face is flushed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. Arthur Kirkland stands up almost immediately, muttering his goodbyes and making a speedy exit, and Ivan is left with a boyfriend who appears to be holding back a tirade of rage.

"What's the matter?" he asks. Alfred's clear blue eyes flick up to focus on his face, and narrow dangerously.

"_What's the matter_?" he hisses, "The matter is that I've worked my ass of over the past three years, and I wasn't even nominated for a single fucking award! God, do you even understand how other people's emotions work?"

Ivan knows that he doesn't mean it, that he's just disappointed and angry, but it still stings.

"You didn't care last year," he says. Alfred exhales shortly, and pushes himself out of his chair.

"Of course I cared last year," he snaps, "Why do you think we fucked so roughly that night? I was livid." Ivan never thought of it as rough. Passionate, certainly, but rough? With all the connotations that word brings?

"Don't take it out on me." He's beginning to get irritated himself now. Alfred moves off, pushing through the crowd to get to the doors, and Ivan hurries after him.

"Why shouldn't I take it out on you?" he says through gritted teeth once they're back in the foyer, "You don't exactly help."

"How am I supposed to help?" Ivan's too hot, and his throat's dry, and the stiff collar of his shirt scratches his neck every time he moves. And Alfred- Alfred is inexplicable.

"You have no idea how hard it is for me," he spits, and runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, "I wouldn't see a single client if they knew that I was a-"

"A what?" Ivan growls, his eyebrows tugging together. It's never been like this before.

"A fag," Alfred snarls.

"Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt," a sharp English voice interrupts. If that were true, Ivan thinks, you wouldn't have done it. He turns his head to glare at Arthur Kirkland. When they were seated, he didn't realise how short he is.

"You're not, Arthur," Alfred sighs. He sounds so much softer, so much quieter – deflated, even. When he glances at Ivan, though, his eyes are still full of fire.

"I just wondered whether you'd care to join me for a drink. I know a rather lovely bar a few streets away." Say no, Ivan pleads. Say no, and we can go home, and sort this out, and have some wine, and go to bed together, and wake up in each other's arms. The way it should be.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," Alfred says.

"Should I-" Ivan begins, because he has to try.

"Look, Ivan – I just need some alone time, okay?"

It's not okay. It's the opposite of okay, but there's nothing he can do about it. Alfred pats him on the shoulder, the way an old-fashioned father might comfort his son, and somehow it's a hundred times worse than simply leaving.

* * *

The next morning, Ivan wakes up with a warm body beside him. He smiles to himself, his eyes still unopened, and reaches over. When his fingers brush against fur, he yelps and scrambles out of bed, terrified. Koshka blinks at him from where she's curled up on top of the duvet.

The rest of the flat is empty.

**I would really appreciate a review, especially because this is the first time I've posted this kind of a story. Let me know what you think. The next chapter should arrive fairly soon.**


	3. Chapter Two

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this strange, stilted story so far! Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

* * *

Ivan gets out of bed, takes a shower, brushes his teeth and gets dressed as if functioning on autopilot. His emotions have been crashing about inside his head for so long that they have become worn down, muted, and all that is left is an indistinct blankness. He makes himself a cup of tea, carefully avoiding the coffee machine, and puts some bread into the toaster. The sounds of traffic and people filter in from outside, a constant, pressing reminder that he is immersed in society, that he cannot just crawl under the covers and bury himself away. That he has a part to play. The toast pops up, and he carries it over to the island counter without even a plate.

And there, sitting inoffensively on the chrome surface, is the case for Alfred's glasses. Ivan swallows his mouthful of dry toast. He's not really hungry, but he feels as though he should eat something. He can't take his eyes away from the case, abandoned so carelessly last night. Empty. Purposeless.

Ivan dumps the rest of the toast in the bin and leaves for work half an hour earlier than usual. The flat is heavy with Alfred's absence, his influence draped over every piece of love-worn furniture and drawer of ironed clothes, and Ivan can't stand it any longer.

* * *

"I think my boyfriend is going to leave me," he says at lunchtime. Toris stops picking at his napkin and stares at him. His eyes are an indistinct green-brown colour, not bright enough to be pretty.

"Oh," he murmurs, and there's nothing that Ivan can say to that. He shovels a mouthful of pasta into his mouth – unlike Toris he appreciates variety, although today he must admit that the spinach linguini tastes like cardboard – mostly to push down the lump in his throat. "Why?" Toris asks a few seconds later.

Ivan thinks about another pair of green eyes, a more intense, more attractive pair. "I think he is sleeping with someone else." That isn't right, though, not really. He wouldn't care if Alfred were sleeping with someone else. He thinks that Alfred is fucking someone else. However, he can't swear during a conversation with Toris. He'd probably have a heart attack.

"Oh gosh," Toris says, his eyes wide and creased at the edges. Ivan doesn't want to discuss his tripping, blundering, crippled relationship with his colleague, but (although it pains him to admit it) he doesn't have many other friends. He doubts that Toris will have any useful advice, but he had a strange notion that admitting his problems to someone else would be therapeutic. As it is, Ivan doesn't feel any different. "Are you sure?" Toris says.

"No," Ivan admits. They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Toris sips at his weak tea, clutching at the paper cup with both hands.

"Well," Toris says slowly, "Maybe you should talk to him about it before you make any decisions. It might be some kind of misunderstanding…" Ivan nods shortly, because he knows that Toris is trying to help.

At that moment his phone rings, and he offers a silent thanks. Although he initiated the conversation, he is grateful of an opportunity to leave it. "Sorry," he mutters at Toris, who shrugs and returns to his tattered napkin.

Ivan presses the phone against his ear. "Hello?" There is a rustling sort of noise, and he wonders if he has been pocket-dialled. But then-

"Hello, Vanya!"

Ivan shifts in his seat, angling his body away from Toris. "Ah. Katyusha. How are you?" His sister's voice is bright, cheerful, but a little wearier than usual.

"I'm okay. Just tired. We went on a trip to the farm yesterday, and I'm still recovering." Katyusha is a primary school teacher, which she insists is a fun, exciting and rewarding career, and which Ivan still believes is a lot like hell. "Anyway, I am calling because Natalya and her new boyfriend are coming for dinner on Saturday, and I wondered if you and Alfred would like to join us."

_You and Alfred. _How can Ivan possibly say that he doesn't even know if there is a 'you and Alfred' any more? "Natalya has a new boyfriend?" he blurts out instead.

"Mm," Katyusha murmurs, "A medical student, apparently." Well, Ivan thinks, if she inflicts bodily harm on this one at least he'll be able to patch himself up afterwards. "You must come," Kat continues, "You are her elder brother. You must make sure he's not unsuitable."

"I think Natalya is the unsuitable one," he says, and she laughs. He can't remember the last time he made anyone laugh.

"Come and warn him, then," she says, "It has been too long since we've all been together." She's right, and yet the thought makes Ivan's heart sink. He can't avoid it. He shouldn't avoid it.

"Okay," he relents, "I will come." He thinks he's being subtle, but Katyusha immediately picks up on his slight alteration.

"And Alfred?" If Ivan were a cartoon character, he would wince. As it is, he swallows and moves his arm so that the phone is against his left ear.

"I am not sure." There's a pause. Ivan clears his throat. He feels as though Kat is dissecting that statement, seeing right through him, pitying him, and he hates it.

"Are things okay between you two?" Her voice is softer, kinder, and it makes him want to end the phone call immediately.

"Yes." It is so much easier to lie. "He is just busy with work. He may not be able to take the time off."

"Oh." Ivan seems to inspire this reaction in people. "That must be difficult." Ivan makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat, because he doesn't trust himself to speak. "The kids will be back from lunch in a minute," Kat tells him, "But I hope to see you – both of you – on Saturday. At seven."

"Yes, sister," Ivan says. Across the table, Toris crumples his napkin and shoves it into the pocket of his neatly pressed trousers.

"Ivan…" Katyusha sounds unsure, suddenly, "Take care of yourself." Ivan could laugh. He wants to tell her that he can take care of himself perfectly well, that it's Alfred he should have been taking care of, because if he had – well, they wouldn't be in this situation now.

"Yes," he promises. They say their goodbyes, and Kat ends the call. Ivan puts the phone back in his pocket. Toris blinks at him, clearly anticipating an explanation. "My sister," he says. Toris doesn't say anything. His mild, unwavering stare is beginning to make Ivan's skin crawl. The Russian man pushes his chair away from the table.

"I have to go," he says, although his next class doesn't start for almost an hour.

Toris nods. "I hope you work things out with Alfred." So much hope, Ivan thinks, and so little stability.

* * *

When he finishes his afternoon lecture – a gruelling analysis of Nekrasov's 'A Knight for an Hour' – there is a message on his mobile. When he sees that it's from Alfred his stomach ties itself into a complicated knot, and he opens it immediately.

_What time will you get back?_ It says,_ We should talk._ There are no kisses, no endearments, and he hasn't referred to their apartment as home, but still Ivan finds it encouraging. Alfred wants to see him, wants to converse with him, and that (he is almost certain) is an improvement on their current state, suspended in silence.

"Mr Braginski?" says an unfamiliar male voice, and Ivan's finger hovers over the reply button.

"What?" he snaps, more harshly than intended, and turns his head. One of his students is standing there, fidgeting. Ivan can't remember his name.

"I was just wondering if I could talk to you about the assignment," he says softly. Raivis, Ivan remembers abruptly; his name is Raivis. Raivis Gallant, or something like that. He's a quiet boy, almost subdued, and he's never spoken directly to Ivan before. Right now, though, Ivan wishes he would just go away.

"It's not a good time," he tells the boy. Raivis nods, and mumbles an apology, and Ivan feels guilty. He shouldn't neglect his work because of personal issues. Good teachers don't do that, and he wants to be a good teacher. "But if you're really concerned, you can come talk to me tomorrow."

"When?" Raivis asks at once, and then he flushes, as though his enthusiasm embarrasses him.

"Uh, lunchtime," Ivan tells him, but his eyes are already wandering back to his phone, to the unanswered message. "If you come here, I'll discuss it with you."

"Okay," says Raivis. Ivan gives him a blank smile and walks away a few steps, just enough to indicate that their conversation is over, and he doesn't think about Raivis Galante (for that is his name, as Ivan discovers later) for another twenty hours.

* * *

When he gets home Alfred is waiting for him. He's sitting in their good recliner, the one with the brown leather upper, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans. His hair is still damp from his shower, and the heat has turned the skin of his neck pink. Ivan can't help but think that if he kissed him there it would warm his lips.

"Hi," Alfred says, but it sounds guarded and odd. Ivan shrugs off his coat, flings it over the arm of the sofa, and sits down.

"Hello," he says. They don't look at each other. Just sitting like this, in silence, is strange. Ivan wants to get up, to make a cup of coffee, to turn on the television, just to make things more normal. The atmosphere is unbearably tense. "Where did you stay last night?" he asks, unable to keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.

"At a friend's house." Alfred is too calm. Ivan gets the impression that he has been sitting in that chair, planning this conversation, for a long time.

"A friend called Arthur?" He doesn't mean to say it, but his mouth seems to work independently of his brain. Alfred crosses one leg over the other.

"That's none of your business." His chin juts out a little. When they met, Alfred wasn't a proud man, but a lot of things have changed since then. "I've been doing some thinking," Alfred says, and it's then that Ivan knows, for definite, that he's going to break up with him. "I think we should be apart for a while."

I think we should be apart for a while. What a weak, vague, gutless statement. "Why?" Ivan demands. He knows that he's being difficult, but Alfred – Alfred is the only man he has ever loved, and he's not just going to let him slip away.

Alfred sighs. "You know why. We're too different." He won't meet his eyes. Ivan's never known him to be a coward before.

"I haven't changed," he says. That, finally, gets a reaction. The American exhales angrily through his nose.

"That's the problem," he snaps, "You just stay the same, no matter what happens. But I don't want to. I'm growing up. I'm bettering myself." Ivan liked him before he was better. When he was unpredictable, and fun, and carefree. "I need someone who can change with me."

Doesn't he know that Ivan would do anything for him? That if he just told him how, he would change any aspect of his life, to be with him? "I love you," he says. Alfred stares at him with a mixture of pity and anger.

"That's not my fault, is it?!" Oh but it is, Ivan thinks. It's entirely Alfred's fault. Alfred, with his bright eyes and easy laugh and long legs. Alfred, the irrepressible. He pushes himself out of the recliner and turns towards the television. "I've packed some of my stuff," he mutters, "I'm not going to pay the rent next month."

Ivan won't, either, because he can't afford to without Alfred. He'll have to find a new place. He'll have to move out. He'll have to live alone again.

"I'm sorry, Ivan," Alfred says, and walks away. Ivan sits there on the sofa, his hands clenched in his lap, feeling hollow and blank and shocked. How can a relationship, a love, be pulled apart with just a few sentences? How can the end be so sudden, when the beginning took so long? It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem fair.

* * *

He sits there until he hears the door close, until Koshka starts whining to be fed, until the sky turns dark. Then he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls his sister, to tell her that Alfred won't be joining them for dinner.

* * *

**It had to be done. Please review and let me know what you think, even if it's just a few words.**


	4. Chapter Three

**It's been a while since I've updated, but this tale has not been abandoned. Thanks must go to_ missionquestthing_, for bringing it to the forefront of my mind. Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors, and I hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers. Shocker, I know.**

* * *

Ivan sleeps fitfully, restlessly, his mind clouded with strange, nonsensical dreams about chasing blonde men down endless corridors. When he wakes it's still dark outside, and there's an unfamiliar dampness on his pillow. He touches it with a fingertip, and then wipes his palm over his face, brushing away the wetness that clings to his eyelashes. He hasn't cried in years. The last time was when Sobaka, Koska's ill-fated predecessor, was run over. Alfred came home to find him sitting on the kerb, clutching the poor thing to his chest, his once-white fur streaked with grime and blood. It was Alfred who kissed his forehead and ushered him upstairs, Alfred who discretely disposed of the body.

Ivan would have liked to bury him, but there's no garden here, and he couldn't exactly put him in a plant pot on the balcony. As if on cue, Koshka mewls and pads into the bedroom, hopping easily onto the mattress and rubbing her soft head against Ivan's shoulder. Alfred never liked cats. After Sobaka's departure he spoke loudly and frequently about the dog he had owned as a child, how affectionate and optimistic it was, and when Ivan returned from work one evening with a tiny snub-faced kitten in his arms Alfred had exhaled through his nose, stormed off to the bedroom and refused to have anything to do with it.

He'd grown to tolerate Koshka, though, even going as far as to pet her when she wound herself around his legs, and Ivan had thought- no. Such notions are foolish, now. Now that he lies alone, both in body and in mind, now that Alfred's suits are gone from their wardrobe. His watches and trinkets have disappeared from the dresser, too, as Ivan discovered when he stumbled into the bedroom last night. It is as though he never lived here, save for the jagged hole in Ivan's throat. And yet- and yet how can he be gone, when Ivan still feels his presence so acutely?

He stays in bed until after eleven. Koshka curls up on his chest, making her characteristic whining sounds. Ivan always thought she sounded a little like a baby, with her plaintive high-pitched cries. Perhaps that was another reason for Alfred's initial antagonism towards her. He never understood the appeal of children, or at least that's what he said – he thought them whiny, messy, irritating. Ivan always accepted that, on the surface, but sometimes when he passed a pushchair in the supermarket, or saw a mother wiping her child's face in a café, he felt a curious tenderness in his chest. He thinks, secretly, that he would be a good father, that his large hands are the right shape to cradle a baby's head.

Ivan kicks away the covers, suddenly furious with himself. Impotent, foolish thoughts. Impotent, foolish man. What use is it to think of children when he doesn't even have a partner, when, at thirty years old, he is utterly alone? There will be no ruddy-cheeked son on a tricycle, no pigtailed daughter bouncing on Alfred's knee. No-one to sing lullabies to, no-one to soothe when nightmares come calling. No more walks through the park, no more hazy nights in jazz bars, no more slow, sultry Sunday mornings with Alfred's long body a streak of gold across the bed. No more anything.

He doesn't realise that he's punched the door until pain blossoms in his knuckles and he jerks backwards, cradling his hand. What a ridiculous cliché. The wood has been completely bashed through. He'll have to fix it. This, at least, he can still repair.

* * *

He considers skipping work, because the thought of facing a rabble of corrosive students seems too much to bear, but as he collapses onto the sofa he realises that Alfred might return at some point, to collect his furniture or the rest of his belongings, and that makes him get up again. The university it is, then. He dresses quickly, messily, without caring that his socks don't match or his shirt is crumpled. Koshka's tail flicks against his ankles. In his rush he scoops out nearly twice her usual amount of food, but from the way she immediately pounces on the dish he suspects she doesn't mind.

The tube is quieter than he is used to – the morning rush has long since dispersed. He finds a seat and relaxes into it, reading the signs on the ceiling so he doesn't have to think about long fingers, or grey suits, or shockingly blue eyes. Opposite him an old man in a green woollen hat is listening to music through an enormous pair of headphones, his entire body bobbing in time to the beat. For some reason, the stranger gives Ivan destructive urges. He wants to rip those headphones away from him, throw them onto the gum-stained floor, crush them beneath his feet. He folds his hands in his lap, sickened, and is grateful when he can leave.

Going out of a tube station is a little like being born, moving smoothly out from the dark, heady underground to the blinding brightness of a busy street. Ivan ducks his head and hurries, sidestepping wandering tourists and arguing families, until, almost without realising it, he finds himself in his own office.

There are no pictures on his desk, just a Serov print blue-tacked to the walls, which are painted a sickly utilitarian green. Ivan has never felt compelled to accessorise his space in the way his colleagues do – his work surface is free of snow-globes and sculptures, his drawers full of papers rather than magazines. He is talented at compartmentalising, which is often mistaken for coldness. He sinks into his ergonomic chair, the one luxury he allows himself at work, and picks up the note on his desk, frowning for a moment at his own scrawl.

Shit. It's half past one, and depending on Raivis' perception of 'lunchtime', there's a good chance Ivan may be late. Sure enough, when he opens the door of the lecture room, the pale-haired boy is already waiting by the desk, clutching some sheets of paper in his hands.

"Sorry," Ivan says immediately, "I lost track of time." It's not exactly a lie, although Raivis probably imagines that his morning has been full of more than lying in bed and destroying furniture.

"It's fine," Raivis replies, a little too quickly. He licks his lips, his eyes fixed on Ivan's shoes, and the professor wonders why he seems so nervous. Perhaps his idea for his assignment is so radical that he's afraid it will shock the university establishment to its core, or maybe he's just unusually timid.

"So," Ivan settles in his chair, motions towards Raivis' papers, "You said you wanted to talk about the assignment."

"Um, yes." The student glances up at him, his eyes surprisingly pale. It's almost as though he's gathering his strength. "Well, I thought-" At that moment the door slams open, and a young man Ivan recognises from one of his other classes bustles in.

"Do you have a minute?" he says, completely cutting off Raivis' soft voice, "It's just, you gave me a D in this paper, and I don't really get why, so I was thinking I should come talk to you about it."

"Ryan," Ivan tells him firmly, "I'm with another student at the moment. If you want to come see me, send me an email and we can make an appointment." Ryan opens his mouth as if to complain, but then thinks better of it.

"Alright. But- well. I'll email." Ivan nods, and he leaves in a whirlwind of red hair and canvas rucksack. Ivan turns back to Raivis, who is (once again) focusing intently on the floor. He sighs.

"Do you want to go somewhere we're less likely to be disturbed?" he asks, and feels a tightness in his stomach. "We could get some coffee?"

"Okay." They could go to Bernard's, but Toris will be there, and he'll doubtless ask about Alfred.

"I know a good café a few streets away," he says instead, "If you don't mind walking a bit." Raivis shakes his head, picks up his satchel from the floor, and follows Ivan out.

* * *

"So what do you think of the class?" Ivan asks, when the silence becomes too much for him. He notices for the first time that Raivis is having to hurry to keep pace, and slows his steps a little.

"It's interesting," the boy says carefully. "I think- I think it has given me more of an understanding of universal constants. In literature."

"Such as?" Ivan wonders idly if the quiet boy minds his prodding, but for the first time in a long while he's genuinely interested in what his student has to say, if only because he seems to be echoing a sentiment that Ivan himself has often expressed.

"Well, the main underlying themes are familiar," Raivis says softly, "Desire, oppression, conflict… they're always present, no matter what country or time the text comes from."

"Yes," Ivan nods, "And do you find that monotonous?"

"No, no!" Raivis' odd-coloured eyes are wide, "It's, um, comforting, in a way." They've reached the café now – it's small and cheerful, the walls painted the same shade of yellow as an egg-yolk. Ivan hasn't been here in almost a year, but it doesn't appear to have changed at all. They settle at a table near the back, Ivan with an Americano, Raivis with a cup of green tea. He sips at it intermittently as he talks, his voice still quiet but gaining confidence.

"I wanted to do my assignment about, um, Anna Akhmatova, about how her personal life affected the production of _Requiem_." He glances quickly at his professor, as if gauging his reaction.

"Hmm." Ivan takes a mouthful of coffee. It's strong, but too cold. Dispassionate. "And what were your main ideas?"

Raivis cups his drink with both hands, a gesture that makes him look awfully young. He's small, slight, but he must be at least nineteen, or Ivan wouldn't be teaching him. "Well, obviously there are the difficulties involved with writing in the shadow of Stalinism," Raivis begins, "But I also wanted to focus on her, uh, unenthusiastic marriage to Gumilev."

Before Ivan can reply, the café door opens, and a familiar figure steps inside. Ivan ducks his head, suddenly nauseous. It can't be a coincidence – but then, what else could it be? Perhaps he won't notice him. Perhaps-

"Ivan?" Fuck. "Hello." Ivan raises his eyes to meet Matthew's, mustering up a blanched grin. The blonde-haired man looks flustered, but then again, that isn't uncommon.

"Hi," Ivan says tightly. Matthew's not alone – there's a tanned man standing near him, studying the specials board. A boyfriend, maybe. Matthew once dated Katyusha, but he's bisexual, so he could be with a man now.

Matthew's eyes flick towards Raivis, who is fidgeting in his seat. The student must wonder what's going on, why this silent tension has suddenly erupted. Ivan thinks, not for the first time, that he is a terrible teacher. "Uh, Alfred called me," Matthew says in a low voice, "Last night. He told me what happened."

Such a pathetic, formless statement. 'What happened.' Ivan bites his lip to stop himself from spitting out that he would like to know what happened, too. "Right."

"I, uh, I'm sorry." Matthew scratches the back of his head. "This- you might think this is a bit weird, but there's an empty apartment in my building. You know, if you're looking for somewhere to move to. I could put in a good word for you with the landlord."

Ivan stares at him, torn between anger and a twisted amusement. How can Matthew suggest that they share a building, when Ivan never wants to see him again? "No," he says, "Thank you, but no."

"Alright." Matthew sounds almost relieved. "Uh, I better be… bye." Ivan just nods, watches him hurry back to his companion's side. When he turns back towards Raivis, the boy is looking at him with barely disguised curiosity.

"That was my…" Ivan trails off. His what? His friend? His acquaintance? His ex-boyfriend's brother?

"You don't have to say," Raivis says quickly, "Um, if it's private."

"No." He wants to say it. He has to say it. This isn't a novel, this is real life, and he can't pretend. "He is the brother of a man I used to be in a relationship with." The past tense still stings, may always sting. Like an irritable wasp against his neck, against his palms.

"Oh." Raivis stares down into his tea. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, it's thoughtful. Considered. There's no inanity here, which is both refreshing and oddly unsettling. Ivan finds himself holding his breath, wondering what the boy will say. "My brother rents apartments."

"What?" Ivan frowns at him, confused.

"Um, that man said you needed somewhere to live. So. My brother rents apartments." He flushes, looking oddly embarrassed.

"Oh." Ivan looks at him, considering. He doesn't want to move out. He likes his flat, likes his furniture, likes his view. But- he thinks about the cold, sharp look in Alfred's eyes, and swallows. He doesn't exactly have a choice.

"Does he do viewings?"

* * *

**Updates will be erratic, as ever. Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed it (or hated it) please let me know by dropping me a review!**


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